


Cleanliness, Godliness

by richbrook



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richbrook/pseuds/richbrook
Summary: You're the bath girl at the hotel in Valentine. A very dangerous but handsome outlaw is your last customer of the night.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 98





	Cleanliness, Godliness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this trope has been well and truly exhausted, but I just want to take care of my sad boah ;___;  
> find me on my shiny new Tumblr @ himboarthurmorgan if you have any requests

“Listen, I know I said you could go home, but you got one more customer down there waiting for you.”

You stop just inches from the door, consider bolting for freedom for all of two seconds before you turn around with a sigh. “At this time of night? I was supposed to finish an hour ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” the hotel owner says, sounding not very sorry at all. “But I couldn’t very well say no to this man. I’ll make sure to pay you overtime.”

You eye your boss warily. “Couldn’t say no, huh? Persuasive sort, is he?”

“Not exactly. He’s uh…” He hesitates for a moment. “He’s the brute that beat Tommy half to death in Smithfield’s the other night.”

“Christ above,” you hiss. The whole of Valentine was talking about that night. Word is poor Tommy still couldn’t string a sentence together. “And you want me to go in there alone with that lunatic?”

“He seems perfectly reasonable tonight and if there’s any trouble just holler and I’ll be down to you with my shotgun.” He looks down the hallway and glances at the clock nervously. “Please. I’ll give you double time.”

You huff and chew your lip. “Fine. But I want next Friday off too.”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” he says, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you, dear. Just— you be careful now.”

“Yeah, like you give a shit,” you mutter under your breath as you trudge down the hall. Your better judgement is screaming at you to turn around and hightail it, your boss be damned. But the larder at home was far too empty for you to turn down the prospect of double the overtime rate.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you smooth back your hair and clear your throat before knocking lightly on the door. “You in need of some assistance in there, sugar?” you call.

There’s a moment of silence and you pray the bastard ignores you or tells you to leave him the hell alone but then a deep voice calls from within.

“Sure. Why not.”

Cursing your own mother for ever having birthed you, you enter the room and close the door gently behind you. You force a smile before turning around, the room is already thick with steam. “You just relax now, darlin’,” you say. “I’ll look after you.”

“Much obliged,” the man in the tub says. Your eyes adjust to the dark room illuminated only by the fire crackling in the hearth and a few flickering tapers. He’s not near as gruesome as you imagined him to be—quite the opposite, in fact.

He’s broad and ruggedly striking with a jawline that could glass. His nose looks like it might have been busted a few times, but he’s no less handsome for it. Under his heavy brow are blue eyes so deep and intense you freeze under their regard for a moment before you remember yourself and sit on the edge of the tub to join him.

“You need more hot water or anything you just let me know.” You dip your hands into the water to test it and it’s just below scalding. “Want me to do your hair first?”

“Sure. That’d be nice.” The man sits forward, granting you access and you are treated to the sight of his broad shoulders peppered with freckles. You grab a basin and fill it with the hot water. He tips his head back obligingly and you indulge yourself in running your fingers through his sandy blonde hair just once before pouring water over it several times.

Normally, you’d chit chat and prattle on while going about your ministrations, more to pass the time for yourself than anything else. Most fellows love the distraction you provide and tip you well if they feel they know you better. The few grumpy bastards that tell you to work in silence are usually shitty tippers anyway. But you’re uncharacteristically nervous now; more so than you’ve ever been since your first day here.

Handsome though he may be, this man is dangerous. According to the other girls, some of the gang he’s purported to run with are even worse. You dare not displease him with your idle chatter, so in silence you lather some soap in your hands and begin to massage his scalp.

“Embarrassed to say it’s been quite a few months since I’ve known what a hot bath feels like.” You almost jumped when he spoke, although his voice was gentle and his manner pleasant. You smile at him.

“Seems like you could do with a good rest.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he says and you scrape your nails gently against his scalp. He exhales through his nose in response and his eyes slowly droop shut. “If I fell asleep, you’d wake me up before I drown, wouldn’t you?”

“I dunno.” You shrug, feeling bold. “Depends how much cash you got on you.”

He laughs and seems almost surprised by the sound. Opening his eyes again, he smirks up and you do your best not to shrink underneath that piercing gaze. “Not nearly enough, miss. Not enough by far.”

“Shame.” You feign disappointment and busy yourself working a soapy lather into his hair. “Suppose I’ll wake you before you slip under then.”

“Thank you kindly.” His eyes fall shut again but a whisper of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You work in silence for a few minutes, massaging the crown of his head slowly, your thumbs kneading the flesh behind his ears. Almost certain that he is dozing, you allow yourself to look at him properly.

His lips are full, if slightly chapped and parted slightly as he breathes softly. You find it hard to reconcile this peaceful man with the savage who left Tommy worse than dead. Heavy stubble covers his strong jaw except for a thin strip of bare flesh on his chin where there is long-healed scar. Another scar cuts across his broad nose and you trace its path until you meet his eyes again which are gazing intently at you.

Your heart damn near jumps into your throat and you smile bashfully before scratching his scalp again, a little harder this time. Sure enough, you hear the rumble of a groan in his chest in response. Like a giant panther, this one. Dangerous as all hell, but pet him in the right spot and he’ll turn into a purring lap cat for you in no time.

“That’s nice,” he says softly, sinking back against the tub. “Real nice.”

“Mm,” you hum and cannot help but smile almost fondly at the sight of this murderous brigand naked and languid with suds in his hair. Carefully, you rinse them out, pushing back the damp locks off his brow. You comb your fingers through the strands, gently tugging away any knots.

“Last time I got my hair washed by someone else was probably by my Mother with me sittin’ in kitchen sink,” he says and he’s locking eyes with you again. Normally your clients don’t make much eye contact with you, either out of sheepishness or they’re too focused on your breasts (which you don’t mind- they’re on display for effect after all). But this man seems intent on looking into your very soul and while it is not unpleasant (his eyes are very beautiful after all) you find yourself strangely tentative under his scrutiny.

“Is that right?” you say, raking your fingers through his hair. “I hope the tub is a bit more comfortable at least.”

“Sure is. Company ain’t half bad neither.”

“Aren’t you the charmer.” You grin, entirely too pleased by the compliment and move on to rubbing his shoulders. They’re broad and corded with muscle. You glide your hands over them indulgently and begin to knead away the stiffness. “Quite a lot of tension here, sweetheart. You must carry all your worries up here.”

“That,” he agrees and exhales heavily when you begin rubbing out a knot with your thumb, “and too much time in the saddle and sleepin’ on the ground.”

“Poor lamb,” you say sympathetically. “Well you don’t think about any of that stuff now, darlin’. You just let me take care of you.”

He hums contentedly and you grab a bar of lye soap and begin running it over the base of his neck. You bite back a smile when you see the smattering of freckles there. It was quite… cute? Not something you thought regularly— or ever really— in the process of your work here. But there was something about the coiled power beneath his muscles and the disparity of the adorable freckles that elicited the strangest feeling in you.

“Lift up your arm there, hon” you direct. “We’ll get you fresh as a daisy in no time.”

He obliges and thankfully you are not assailed by any unpleasant odours. You lather up the soap and clean the brush of hair underneath his arms, working your way down to his biceps. They are thick and powerful—you think you could wrap both sets of fingers around them and they would not meet. You are almost tempted to test that theory out, but bite your lip instead and focus on soaping up his forearms instead.

Goddammit, but they’re even more distracting. Covered with a smattering of dark hair, his forearms are heavily muscled and veined. You swallow thickly as heat pools in the pit of your belly and try not to imagine those powerful arms wrapped around you. _Lifting you—_

“Not a bad town you got here,” the man says, mercifully oblivious to the effect he’s having on you. “You from round these parts?”

You soak a flannel cloth and wipe down his arms. “It’s alright I suppose, once you get past the smell of pig shit.” Scrubbing at some dried mud caked into his arm hair you smile softly to yourself. He was a talker, this one. “No, I ain’t local.” You don’t elaborate further. The past wasn’t something you particularly liked to talk about and most fellas loved a girl with an air of mystery about them anyhow. “I’m a long way from home. Just like you.”

He does not press you for more information, for which you are thankful. “Local girls must’ve hated when you rolled in,” he says with a slight smirk. “Pretty lady like you stealin’ all the attention.”

You laugh and turn around to grab the nail brush to hide the blush rising on your cheeks. “Hush now, you’ll give me a big head.” You take his wrist and inspect his hand. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with here.”

A man’s hands usually required the most attention. Most men in these parts worked with their hands all day every day and only ever gave them a cursory wash before their supper. You didn’t mind giving them a thorough cleaning—in your experience, a man’s hands could tell you more about him than any words.

This stranger’s palms are calloused, the skin thickened from old blisters likely from the reins or toting a gun. The heel of his palm is stained a darker colour, from what you assume is gun oil. You know that if you were to press your fingers against his, his hand would dwarf yours. Like the rest of him, it is large and strong. You turn it over and swallow against a gasp when you see his knuckles, blackened and raw with deep gashes, almost to the bone.

You think about poor, stupid Tommy and your breath spills from your lips in a shaky exhale. You look up at him and he is watching you intently once more. His eyes are calm, almost expectant and you are sure that he must be able to hear your heart pounding against your chest.

“You shouldn’t bite your nails,” you say absently, dipping the bristled brush in the soapy water before scrubbing his fingertips. “It’s a nasty habit.”

“Saves me from scrapin’ the dirt out from under ‘em.” He smiles at you and you feel he is appreciative of your discretion. It’s no matter to you really, you’re not here to judge. Besides, if you refused to cater for every man who’d found himself in a barfight you’d never earn another dollar again. So you set yourself to the task of scrubbing his nails and are careful not to agitate the broken flesh on his knuckles.

“I was almost married once, you know,” the man says after a few moments, apropos of nothing. “She never bathed me.”

Unable to help yourself, you giggle. You had a sneaking suspicion this fellow was not afforded the opportunity to speak freely about himself often.

“Well, that’s her loss,” you say, walking around the tub to sit on the other side and start cleaning his other arm. “A fine strapping man like you should have a nice girl to take care of him in the evenings.”

“I dunno ‘bout that…” he grumbles, watching you rub the cloth over his forearm. His eyes slide out of focus and he appears lost in thought until he flicks his gaze back up to you again. “What about you? You spoken for?”

“No, sir. I’m not.” You smile softly as you scrub at his hand. This one at least isn’t as busted up as the other. That must have been his dominant hand.

“Not on account of a lack of offers, I’d wager.”

“Certainly a lack of viable ones,” you shrug, massaging his long fingers. You feel a funny notch in the joint of his middle finger. He must have broken it a while back and never had it set straight. “I’m just waiting for the right one to come along.”

“He’ll be a lucky man,” he says gently and you feel colour rise in your cheeks.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, darlin’.” You rise and hang a large kettle of water above the open fire. “Let’s get this heated up for you. Don’t want you catching a chill.” The water in the tub is still warm, but you’re not halfway through with this man and you were quite enjoying the red flush creeping up his broad chest.

You return to his side and lather some suds into the cloth before wringing it out over his chest. The hair there is darker and coarser than that on his head and you find yourself transfixed by the slow rise and fall of his chest and you sweep the cloth over his pale skin. Even in the dimly lit room you can see the prominence of his ribs at his side. He’s all muscle, sinew and bone this one. You imagine it’s been quite some time since he’s had hot meal in his belly on the regular. You’re not a half bad cook and you start to think of the hearty meals you’d fatten him up with if he was your man.

“What’re you smilin’ at?” he says, stirring you from your reverie. To your relief, he does not look irritated, but rather amused, A grin must have passed across your face as you imagined him with a little more padding to his gut. “I do somethin’ stupid?”

“No, sweetheart. Never. Just caught me in a silly daydream, is all.”

You can’t be sure, but his smile is almost knowing. “Somethin’ nice, I hope.”

You bite your lip and gently trace your fingers along the hair trailing down his sternum. “It sure was,” you say, your hand dipping into the water to skirt across his navel. Lips parted, his breath stills as you stroke the hair beneath his bellybutton. Your own core tightens when you feel a thick brush of coarse hair and you are about to reach down further when the kettle begins to whistle obnoxiously.

The devil himself couldn’t have timed it better.

Cursing the confounded thing, you sigh and get up to take it off the heat. The man releases the breath he was holding and clears his throat. The water sloshes and he sits up in the tub.

“You mind if I help myself to a drink?”

“Sure thing. That’s what it’s there for.” With a small towel you pick up the iron kettle. “Watch your feet there.” You pour the boiling water into the end of the tub gently, careful not to splash it on him. As you set the kettle aside, he pours a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and offers it to you with an arched eyebrow.

“Join me in a drink?”

Normally, you would never even begin to entertain the thought of drinking on the job. You had to keep your wits about you and most men didn’t care much at all when if you politely declined. But tonight was no ordinary night and everything about this handsome stranger stirred something strange and unknown in you.

“Alright.” You take the glass from his outstretched hand and drink a generous mouthful, relishing the burn as it rushes down your throat. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

He seems pleased as he takes the glass back, never removing his gaze from you as he knocks back the rest of the drink. He smirks and pours himself another measure. “I wouldn’t like to get a good girl like you in trouble.”

The thrill that shoots through you is surprising but not at all unwelcome. “Trouble always finds a way, mister,” you say, kneeling down beside the end of the tub. “Especially for good girls like me.” A low growl of a laugh rumbles deep in his chest and you reach into the hot water and curl your fingers around his ankle. “Now, lift up your foot for me.”

You’re pleased to see he takes orders nicely as he wordlessly lifts his leg out of the water and sets his foot on the edge of the tub. This is normally your least favourite part of the job and if a man is particularly foul, you’ll neglect his feet altogether. However, you’re pleased to see this man’s foot is inoffensive enough. It’s long and broad with blisters in places and his biggest toe is missing the nail, but it’s clean and thankfully does not smell.

You lather the soap in your hands and begin rubbing it over his skin. His knee jerks violently when your thumbs brush the underside of his toes and you laugh. “Sorry darlin’. Ticklish?”

“Don’t think so,” he says, brow furrowing. “Just.. don’t think I’ve ever been touched there before.”

“Want me to stop?”

He shakes his head. “Not unless you want to.”

This fellow might just be the most considerate outlaw you’ve ever have the fortune to come across. You bite back a grin and continue to rub his feet, careful not to skirt across the ticklish spot again. “A horse tread on you there?” You glance pointedly at his big toe.

He smiles crookedly. “How’d you know that?”

“You’d be surprised how few men come in here with all ten of their toes.”

“All my fingers and toes accounted for luckily.” He watches you for a moment as he drains the rest of his drink and sets the glass back on the bath board. “Anyone ever tell you you got blessed hands?”

“Not in so many words, no.” You say, digging your thumbs into the ball of his foot.

He bits his lip at that and sighs through his nose. “Oh… that’s good. S’real good.”

“You know,” you say, massaging slowly, “in China they believe parts of your feet are linked to the rest of your body.”

He leans back against the tub, his breathing becoming heavier. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm hm. According to them, if I were to press just so right _here_ ,” you press your thumb deep into the arch of his foot and you feel him tense up, “then you’ll fell it all the way up there.” He groans softly and you revel in the sound.

“Goddamn…” he blinks in surprise and grins contentedly. “I might have to go visit China.”

He lounges back in the tub with his eyes closed as you massage him for a few minutes, shifting only to lift his other leg when you move around to work on his right foot. You lather your hands with soap and massage in silence, delighting in the soft groans your attentions elicit when you press into a sensitive spot.

You imagine this must be the first time in a long time—if ever—that this man has enjoyed the attention of someone devoted solely to pleasure him. What a shame, you think, that no one has introduced this beast to the extensive pleasures of his own flesh.

Well, you always fancied yourself a good teacher and he’s not too old enough to learn.

He’s breathing heavier, the muscles in his abdomen contracting with the rise and fall of his chest and you think it might be one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Wordlessly, you press your mouth to the inside of his ankle, tracing your tongue around the notch of bone.

His eyes snap open and he watches you dumbfounded; his pupils blown wide. “Christ…”

You mouth your way up, press a kiss to his shin. “When was the last time someone looked after you proper, sweetheart?” Moving along the edge of the tub, on your knees, you roam your hands over the swell of his calf, up to the back of his knee. “When was the last time someone made you feel good?”

The strangest expression clouds his face. Not fear, but almost an apprehension of sorts. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “Long time ago…” he rasps.

“Now that ain’t right,” you say, massaging his quads. “Want me to make you feel good, baby?” You squeeze the flesh of his inner thigh and his body goes taut as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yes,” he grinds out, his eyes wide and dark, your mouths just inches apart. “Yes, please.”

With a soft smile, you reach into the water and take him in hand. Heat blossoms in your core when you feel that he is already erect and your bite your lip. As you suspected, he is large and girthy and you watch his face contort with pleasure as you give it an experimental tug.

“You been hard for me this whole time, sweetheart?” You ask, circling your fingers around his shaft.

He watches you with big round eyes like a man hypnotised. “Y-yes.” He manages between shaky breaths.

“Good boy.” You hum with approval and begin working him slowly. He drops his leg into the water and grips the edge of the tub, groaning softly and you find yourself coveting that sound.

You’re breaking so many of your own rules right now. Never before have you done this for one of your customers, even on the occasions when you were offered a week’s pay to do so. Although you may tease and provide all the allure of the working girl, you were there to bathe them only. Let the blighters cross the road to Smithfield’s to find a girl for the night.

But this imposing stranger with his powerful body and his sad eyes compels you. Principles be damned. You want to do this for him—for yourself.

You pull back the foreskin and sweep your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock. He jerks and stiffens, body taut as a strung bow. He moans loud enough that anyone out in the hallway would surely hear, but you can’t bring yourself to care. There’s a pleasant tingling between your legs and you feel yourself getting wet from the sounds he’s making alone.

“It’s real hot in here,” you say, releasing him to pull your arms through the sleeves of your dress. “Let me get more comfortable.” You pull down the bodice of your dress, folding it down so it sits on your hips, exposing your breasts. He watches your nipples harden before him with a rapt expression of pure lust.

You take his cock in hand again and he releases a shuddering breath. “ _Please_.”

“Please what, darlin’? Tell me what you want.”

His knuckles are blanched white where they are gripping the tub. He looks at your breasts and licks lips. “Please... Can I?”

You smile knowingly. Full sentences are bound to be a challenge in his state. Luckily you can put two and two together.

“Of course, darlin’,” you say, stroking his cock firmly. “You can do whatever you like.”

He sits forward and clasps your breast with a touch that is almost reverent. His large weather-beaten hands squeeze you gently and a soft sigh passes through your lips. The motion of your wrist falters slightly.

“So Goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs and leans forward to latch his mouth on to your nipple. You cry out as he suckles at you, the rough stubble of his chin grazing your sensitive flesh.

“Mm, that’s a good boy,” you moan, stroking him with renewed fervour. “Your big cock feels so good.” He groans around your nipple and you gasp when he takes it between his teeth. “Want to put it in me sometime?”

He looks up at you, mouth red and eyes wide with all the desperation of a starving man. “I want to…” he says in a strained whisper. “Want to so bad.”

You want it as well. But you’ve had the poor bastard on edge for too long now and what you want more than anything else is to watch him succumb to his release at your hand.

“I know you do, baby,” you say soothingly, cupping the side of his face. “But what I want right now is for you to come for me. It would make me very happy.”

He shudders and kisses your palm before running his fingers through your hair and drawing you together so your foreheads are touching. “I’m close,” he whispers against your mouth and you capture his lips in a passionate kiss. His tongue sweeps over yours and he moans as you trace a bulging vein in his cock with your thumb.

“You like that, huh?” you ask and he nods breathlessly, his hand massaging your breast. “If you were my man, sweetheart…. I’d make sure your big cock was never not inside me.”

He growls against your lips then, squeezes your breast _hard_ as you stroke him faster.

“I’d make sure that whenever it wasn’t in my mouth,” you continue as his panting becomes more erratic, “it’d be in my tight little _cunt_.”

He curls his fist in your hair and comes with a strangled moan then. “That’s it. Come for me, baby” you praise, stroking him through it. He shivers and bucks into your fists before collapsing back against tub with a laboured groan.

“Christ alive…” he pants, his chest covered in a sheet of sweat. “I’m seein’ stars.”

You smile and dry your hand off on a handtowel. “I’m thinking you needed that.” You stand and slip your arms into the sleeves of your dress and pull it up again. He catches your wrist and you are surprised to see he his expression is wounded.

“Hold on now. Let me finish you.”

You laugh fondly and lean down to push a damp strand of hair off his brow. “I’m alright, darlin’. Really.” you say truthfully. While you’d love nothing more than to spend the rest of the night with this man, it’s already the early hours of the morning and you have another long shift tomorrow. Besides, you’ve always been a fan of delayed gratification. You have a feeling this won’t be the last time your two cross paths. “You don’t have to worry about getting me off.”

His brow furrows with concern as he tugs your wrist gently. “But I want to.”

You smile and lean in to kiss him, smooth and slow. He cradles your face and slips his tongue into your mouth. You consider throwing caution to the wind and flinging yourself into the lukewarm tub on top of him, but you decide against it. He would not know, but the act of pleasuring him was a pleasure for you in itself. You draw back from the kiss and smirk.

“You’ll just have to make sure you come find me again to repay me.”

He sighs and regards you with a languid grin. “Best be careful what you ask for, beautiful. I always pay my debts.”

“I hope you do.” You get up and retrieve two soft towels from the cabinet and lay them on the bath board. “You take your time finishing up here. I best be off.” You turn to leave but he catches your hand gently.

“Wait,” he says, sitting forward. “I’d like to know your name. If you want to tell me, that is.”

You smile softly. They don’t normally ask your name and when they do, you lie to them and say it’s Daisy or Belle or something else generic. With this man though, it’s different.

“It’s Y/N,” you tell him.

“Y/N,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it. “That’s pretty.” He looks at you in silence for a moment, sincere and earnest with that penetrating gaze. “Thank you, Y/N.”

You lean down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re very welcome, darlin’.”

“I’m Arthur,” he says, still holding on to your hand. You hadn’t asked in case he didn’t want to tell, but you’re glad to know.

“King Arthur.” You smile and brush your thumb over his cheek before rising and moving over the door. “Try not to get yourself locked up or killed any time soon,” you call over your shoulder. “You got debts to pay.”

“Don’t you worry,” he smirks. “I’m a man of my word.”

You leave and shut the door behind you. Up at reception, the desk is unattended. So much for your boss keeping a watch out for you. The bastard.

Valentine is pretty quiet at this hour of the night, except for the odd drunkard staggering to or from Smithfield’s. Your house isn’t a far walk and a bright full moon illuminates your way. You smile to yourself the entire walk home thinking about the handsome outlaw with the sad eyes so desperately in need of someone to show him some kindness.

Perhaps you could be that someone.


End file.
